InDreams
by Silencing
Summary: This story is a crossover between Sandman and Harry Potter. Both stories are completely taken seriously and are justified in the story. Set after the events of HP Book 6, Dumbledore meets Dream and the rest of the Endless and continues the fight against V
1. A Prologue

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and Neil Gaiman, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books and DC Comics, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N: **First off, thanks for opening up this story, it means a great deal to me when people read it. This story has been stewing around in brain for awhile, because as a fan of both Harry Potter and Sandman, I wished for a way to cross them over. When I found one, I was astounded. So, I hope I did Neil some justice, this is the first fanfic I've ever written off of his stuff. So here goes nothing.

**This story is dedicated to Seth, James (Dream, my little brother), and Kristin, who shares my Delirium and is the best beta in my life**

_A Prologue_

Dumbledore stood by the wall of the balcony, watching his body fall to the floor. His soul had already been removed from his former body, and now, a surreal form of himself watched the scene unfold in silencing, the way one would watch a Muggle motion picture. This wasn't one he particularly enjoyed, but it had to take place nonetheless.

A woman stood with him. A woman that looked out of place in Hogwarts Castle.

She had pale white skin, that, when his with the right light, could make her look transparent. She was pole thin, but her black clothes fit on her frame perfectly, never allowing a thought of her health cross a mind. She wore strapping boots, which encased her legs, disappearing into her sleek black pants, adorned by her simple black belt. Her shirt was thin strapped, scandalous for the school's halls, and her eyes were not only well decorated, but warm and inviting, if you could find them under her wild black hair. But the thing about her that could catch attention first was the large silver ankh that was hanging loosely on a simple string around her neck. It was the symbol of life, her sigil, for she is Death.

And she was here for Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

He did not question her. He knew who she was and why she was there. He turned to her, and matched her warm smile with one of his own.

"We meet again, m'lady," he said politely, for Dumbledore was one of the few that had survived the presence of Death in his lifetime.

"Hey there, Albus," she said in return, a weathered English accent adorning her words.

They stood for a moment, watching the scene unfold, for time passes differently in the realm of Death, and she knew it was his wish to be sure of Harry's actions.

Finally, Dumbledore had finished his observance, and strode to Harry side, staring down at the face of a young adult. It was his last goodbye to the wizard.

He felt a tug on his hand and he turned to Death, confident of Harry's future.

"It's time to go," Death said, and he offered her his arm.

And together they left the mortal world.

--- --- --- --- --- ---

Dumbledore stood alone in Death's house. As soon as she had gotten in, she had to rush out to gather another soul, and he agreed to stay put for her before he left for his next destination.

He was very out of place in her small, unadorned house. His deep purple robes stood out against the white washed walls, and simple furnishings. A worn out green chair sat in the corner, and on it sat a stuffed bear, looking close to retirement. A picture of misfits was framed and hanging on the wall, Death herself sitting in the middle of them all. Otherwise the room seemed empty and plain. Only two things really caught his eyes. One was a darkened hallway, where seven frames hung on the wall, six were paintings and one was a mirror.

The other was the other two tenants, the small girl's goldfish, whom she had introduced as Slim and Wadsworth.

He had spent less than a minute alone with the fish before he knew that Death had returned. There was no sound announcing her arrival, since there were no exiting doors to the house, but somehow Dumbledore knew that she had come back.

She strode into the room, slightly out of breath, and greeted him with the warm smile that had made many dead men weak in the knees.

"Nothing like a small town disaster to keep you in shape," she said, and before Dumbledore could inquire as to her meaning, there was a loud demanding voice coming from the mysterious hallway.  
"My sister, I stand in my gallery, and I hold you sigil. Will you speak with me?" the voice commanded, seeming to come out of the portrait of an extravagant helmet, like a wireless player.

Death hurried over to the portrait, and removed the helmet from the frame, setting it on the floor, before leaning inside the frame.

A moment later, a moment Dumbledore had spent conversing with the fish, Death retreated from the frame and walked over to the wizard, slightly flustered.

"C'mon, it seems I've made a mistake."

"I would believe so," Dumbledore responded kindly, and they both stepped into the frame, leaving the realm of Death, and entering the heart of the Dreaming.

--- --- --- --- --- ---

They emerged through the picture frame, something that Dumbledore had never experienced in all of his years as a wizard, and he found it rather exhilarating, and straightened to find themselves in the presence of a tall man.

He was a tower of a man, as thin and pale as Dumbledore's female companion. He was dressed in heavy black fabric, a cape of sorts hanging over his fancy clothing, layers of fabric folding on each other, creating a foreboding sea of black. His hair was also as untamed as the girl's, but instead of intricate designs curling around his eyes, there were just pools of black, twinkling like stars.

"Hello sister," he said in a dark and deep voice, which could give a grown man the chills.

"Hey there Dream," she responded. "Wanna explain to me what we are doing here? I am relatively busy, you know."

Dream let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. "Then you have forgotten?"

A pause. "Forgotten what, little brother?"

The two broke into a childlike banter, from which Dumbledore was distracted. He gazed, instead at the elegance of the room in which they were standing.

The room was painted in an elegant dark orange colour, and the frames that hung on the wall were similar to what he had briefly seen in Death's house. Seven frames, each containing what seemed to be a different symbol. The first held an old beat up book, strung closed by the chains encompassing it. The frame next to it held a gleaming silver ankh, larger than the one that Death herself was wearing. Then there was a mirror, a black sheet rustling in its confines, a half broken silver heart, a small ring with a morbid hook extending from the top of its loop, and a frame holding nothing but an untamable whirlwind of colour. For some reason these frames gave Dumbledore a sense of comfort at the same time that they made him more uneasy than he had ever felt in his life.

The rest of the room was decorated regularly. There was an old fashioned couch to his right, and a well crafted side table next to it. Drapery was hanging precariously from the ceiling and it bordered the entire room, but disappeared as the room gave way into a hallway, which led the eye to a bright light in the distance. Dumbledore wondered what was in that room that was giving off such a light.

Finally their bickering stopped abruptly, and the woman turned to the elder wizard before turning back to her brother.

"Oh, Dream, is that him?" Death asked.

Dream ran a hand across his snow white forehead and said, "Yes my sister, and you almost let him go. You know how much I owe him, and I must honour that debt."

"So sorry, Dream, I've just been so…well...rushed. Look, I have to go, should I leave him with you then?"

"Yes, dear sister, thank you for you cooperation."

She bid the two a quick goodbye, and then disappeared once again into the portrait of an ankh.

Dream turned finally to Dumbledore and spoke gravely. "Hello Albus, welcome to the Dreaming."

Dumbledore gave him a wide smile and returned, "Hello Dream, I take it that it is time?"  
Dream gave him a nod and the two walked together, further into the Dreams.

**A/N:** There's the beginning then. Just a sweet little greeting into the world. Thanks again for reading it, and if you ever want to drop me a line, my webpage is 


	2. The Beginning

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and Neil Gaiman, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books and DC Comics, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** So once again, thanks for giving this story a chance. Every chapter is a new adventure for me, just trying to mix the two worlds into something that makes sense. In this chapter, I actually acknowledge both worlds, and you'll find that I try to include the rest of the family as much as possible. I love them!

**Dedicated as always to Seth, and to Kristin who puts up with my story talk even when we're trying on pretty dresses. **

_The Beginning_

Dumbledore had expected them to move towards the elegant throne room they had met in last time. Dream would ascend an eternity of steps, and looking down on Dumbledore he would dictate the terms of their deal again. Contrary to his expectations, Dream made no move from the room that contained seven of the oddest pictures Dumbledore had ever seen. They stood for a moment in a stale silence before a sudden movement from Dumbledore startled Dream, and he began to speak.

"Well Albus, I believe you know why I brought you here. I am in great debt to you and it's finally time to repay it."

Dumbledore grinned anxiously in understanding, "Yes. When shall we begin then? I believe it would be best to begin right away, for Harry's sake."

Before he could continue, Dream stopped him short.

"You forget Albus, time flows differently in the world of the Endless. When we begin our communication with the young wizard it will be when both parties are clear and ready to give and receive the information. But until then, I think a meeting with my brother would be in order," and with those words, Dream finally moved, his great cloak shifting silently, until he stood in front of the framed book.

Soundlessly, he reached into the frame and pulled the book into his hands and spoke loudly, "My brother, I stand in my gallery and hold your sigil. Will you speak to me?"

"Yes Dream," came the reply, "It is time."

--- --- --- ---

Through a dark fog, Harry could see the blurred outline of an older man and hear the faint sounds of him pleading for his life.

A tall thin man now walked into his field of vision, and he knew what was going to happen. He tried to reach for the older man, but his feet seemed to have melted into the ground. Tried to cry out but his voice had dried up. The only thing he had control of was his eyes, and they soon began to slowly produce hot and painful tears. Suddenly, a bright flash of light and ---

Harry's eyes flew open and he shot up in bed. He was breathing hard, and a cold sweat decorated his forehead. Due to the dream, he was wound up like a mummy in the thin crème sheet he used for summer sleeping.

He took a deep breath into his lungs, trying to slow his racing heart, as he reached a shake hand out to the small table sitting beside his bed, and fumbled blindly for his glasses.

Finding them after a few seconds of searching, he carefully slipped them onto his face. He took a moment to completely calm himself down, before glancing around the almost barren room. As always, the few possessions he had were scattered across the floor, spell books held open to pages describing various jinxes and defense spells, and a guide book on Apparation. There were two small beds that had been conjured up by Hermione, and she occupied one, Ron the other. Harry had been teaching them the execution of the spells, while in turn Harry had been coaching them on silent casting, and Apparation, since Harry wasn't able to practise magic for three more weeks (and the Ministry was holding Apparation exams two weeks after that). He hoped to be living in Godric's Hollow by then, and tracking down the remaining Horcruxes. Though he didn't have the slightest idea of where to begin…

Harry shook off the thought and carefully unwrapped himself, sitting up out of bed, and stepped over books on his way to the door. He laughed silently at how Hermione always managed to leave a library in her wake.

He shut the door as quietly as he could behind him, before creeping downstairs. The Dursleys had oddly enough given Harry his space this summer, so this probably wasn't entirely necessary. Maybe it was the way Harry had returned that year. He had met them at the station and informed them that they would be lodging two very qualified wizards for a month, and that if they were treat to him like they had before in anyway, he would sod the Ministry's law and hex them to the edge of sanity. This seemed to work because after a few times of acting up, Hermione or Ron would summon something from across the room. After the fifth time of almost being knocked in the head by the mantle clock, Vernon had begun to just ignore the trio. Needless to say, Harry was enjoying it.

He reached the sitting room without event and made his way to the kitchen, pausing only slightly at the small door that symbolized his past imprisonment, when he was friendless and knew nothing of the magic that flowed in his veins, or the blasted prophecy that made Voldemort come for him. Now he had not only two of the best friends a person could wish for, but knew they would help him in his fight against Voldemort. It was one of the few things that let him sleep at night.

He walked into the kitchen, glad to see he was the only one in the household with the midnight (well 2 A.M. to be exact) snack idea. Another oddity of the summer. He never once heard Dudley even attempt to sneak around for snacks. At any rate, Harry was glad to be leaving this nuthouse soon enough.

Within a few minutes Harry had grabbed a glass of milk and a few of the cookies he had stashed away on a quiet night much like this one, and settled himself down at the tabled that dominated the dining room.

He fell into a quiet routine of drinking the cookies, taking a bite and then downing a sip, while trying to sort out the thoughts in his head.

Truth was, Harry was hard pressed to keep his thoughts straight. Every time he slowed down, he was haunted by the memory of Dumbledore's murder. He tried not to let it get to him. He tried his damned hardest to be as strong as people wanted him to be, but since the day of the funeral, the wall he had built up against the grief had come down. Magic was his only distraction, and he was glad to have his friends to teach while he couldn't practise.

He downed the last of the milk, and stood with a heavy sigh, walking over to the fridge for a refill. Closing the door when he was finished, he turned towards the tabled and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Hermione!" he yelled in a whisper, his heart racing for the second time that night, "What in Merlin's beard are you doing down here?"

Hermione winced at his sharp tone, "I just," she paused, "I heard you get up, and I figured you need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," came Harry's masked response.

"Yes there is Harry. I know what you're going through, we all do. It's not healthy to shut it up. Not after everything that's happened."

She expected him to say something, but she was wrong.

Harry just proceeded to the table, collapsing in the chair, and turning his heavy gaze to the cookies. Hermione sat down next to him, and placed her hand cautiously over Harry's.

Harry lifted his eyes to hers in surprise at the gesture, but made no move to take his hand back. They sat in silence for a few moments, before Harry took a deep breath and lifted his head to the ceiling.

And as Hermione gripped his hand tightly, Harry finally broke down.

--- --- --- --- ---

Voldemort sat in a decorated chair set against the south wall of the Malfoy Ballroom. The room was extravagant, with high ceilings adorned with banners of the Malfoy family crest. A large picture of a snake was imbedded into the polished floors, a mosaic made of emerald and ruby. The walls were spotted with the paintings of the silver haired masters of the Manor, centuries hanging on the walls.

Without the host there, the safe house of the Death Eaters felt like a cold prison where they were unwanted and unwelcome. Sure, the house elves catered to their every whim in fright and Narcissa was a pleasant enough hostess, but without his second in command, Voldemort actually felt a little lost, which was a feeling he denied every moment of the day. It was not his place to worry. It was only his place to command, to frighten.

And to punish, which is what needed to be done right now. The young Malfoy had disobeyed his command and fled the school, bringing the Potions Master with him.

This had taken away his only thread of power inside Hogwarts, which he would have to regain somehow. Now there was no student in the castle to recruit students while they were still impressionable. It was a burning and hurtful blow to be true.

There was punishment in the air, he could smell it.

After a few moments of silent planning, he stood from his makeshift throne to pace the room. His long legs stepped over the gleaming wood and provided dull echoes throughout the room.

Suddenly the heavy mahogany doors were thrown open and a young blonde man was escorted into the room roughly.

Voldemort turned to face them. A smile snaked across his face as he hissed, "Leave us."

A chill crawled up Draco's spine as the doors slammed shut, leaving him along with the Dark Lord.

Yes, punishment was in the air.

--- --- --- --- ---

Despair walked through her realm of shadows and mists, her rats following her unsatisfied trail. On her walk, she looked through her mirrors, taking in the sights of tears and blood. Pain and pills. She sighed heavily and sank her hook into her cheek, creating a hole and a trail of blood. One of the rats crawled up her skin, leaving puncture wounds in its wake. His fur was rough but inviting as he sat of her shoulder and drank in her blood.

Finally, her journey was at an end, she stood in front of one of her more decorated mirrors. It was gold and engraved with pictures of snakes and rats and humans and sacrifices. This mirror was meant to show her those closest to the breaking point of despair. Those mortals that were thrown the furthest into her realm. Often this mirror was where she spent most of her day, staring at the people who had fallen so hard into the pit of depression that they could not get out. It held familiar faces. A man in Egypt, a woman from Memphis, two children living alone in Paris. But recently it had been showing the face of a young bespectacled British man more and more frequently. He currently sat within the frame, at a table hunched over, his hand being held by someone outside the frame. He was sobbing uncontrollably, falling deeper into Despair.

So she sat and watched an ironic smile placed on her face as she drug her hook down her cheek, watching the desperation of Harry Potter.

**A/N: **As always, let me know what you think, and if you ever want to contact me, visit


End file.
